Be There Till the End of Me
by Dobby's Socks
Summary: It's after Berlin, 1939, that the Doctor realizes he's running out of time, and already run out of lives. Discussion of potential character death, mentions of Amy/Rory and Doctor/River, alludes to some things discussed in-show in S7, but set after "Let's Kill Hitler", fairly angsty with a dash of comfort


**No fancy explanation for this one, guys. Just me trying to tie up some loose ends/fix what could be considered continuity errors within the show itself. Don't know if I succeeded, but I'll let you judge for yourselves. This is set directly after the events of "Let's Kill Hitler", but makes reference to some characters/plot points not discussed until "The Time of the Doctor", so you might not want to continue if you haven't seen that yet. Enjoy!**

**Dobby's Polka-Dotted Sock**

**Be There Till the End of Me**

In the back of the TARDIS wardrobe room, there was a long, ornate mirror in a gilded frame. The Doctor did not, in fact, know where it had come from or who put it there, as he certainly hadn't. But there it was, for anyone to use. He oftentimes caught his companions on a lazy day picking and choosing outfits at random to try on, from any time period or corner of the galaxy—though they tended to gravitate toward Earth styles, amusingly enough—and posing before the mirror to admire the effect. This was usually a practice more common amongst the females he'd traveled with; he'd only once seen Rory back here, and that was because Amy had wrangled the poor nurse into participating as well. Having promised to never bring up the incident again, the Doctor mentally chastised himself.

It was now he himself who stood before the mirror, not in anything unusual, or rather not unusual for him. He hadn't bothered to turn the lights on in the wardrobe room, and the TARDIS did not do so for him, even reducing her ever-present hum to a dull murmur. A single sliver of light from the corridor outside shone through, and that was enough to illuminate his reflection.

He started at the feet first; old, worn brown boots that probably had no business on feet so young. But the more stylish Chuck Taylors of his predecessor had had flat bottoms, honestly terrible for the arches when constantly running. He much preferred the practicality of his old-man boots, thank you very much. Bloody sandshoes…

The long socks he could just see between boot and trouser-leg were undoubtedly silly, yet they kept his feet and calves warm. And why wear boring socks, anyway? The trousers fitted over his long bow-legged stance were black, largely unremarkable, as he'd worn such a fair few times. The braces that held them up, a deep red color, were something a bit more unique, though.

The collared, button-down shirt could almost be passed up in this examination; rarely had he deviated from this staple. He knew it covered a lean, pale chest, and the sleeves ran down over long, gangly, and often fidgety arms. The brown tweed jacket, elbow pads and all, had been pulled on overtop. It served his purposes right now better than the green overcoat, though he was fully intending on trying that out again.

And of course—Pond's favorite!—the bowtie. Ah, if she only knew the half of it. He'd visited and revisited bowties a number of times, particularly earlier on in his…well, moving on.

That chin just defied all basic conventions of proportions, didn't it? He didn't think it looked so bad as some had said, but then again that could just be wishful thinking. Turning his head this way and that, he eventually decided to simply call it angular and leave it at that. The ears weren't so protruding as they'd been at other times, though he had a feeling if he had less hair they'd certainly stick out more.

The cockamamie hair, long and thick enough to momentarily trick him into thinking he'd accidentally pulled a Corsair, what to say about that? He'd been trying to tame it lately, combing and gelling the fringe to one side, but perhaps he was traveling too far in the other extreme? Running long, fumbling fingers through a couple times returned some of the original flop to the front strands, and he thought that was a bit more of an even balance. It was brown, a relative norm for him, especially lately.

He hardly had the eyebrows to go with such a full head of hair, and he prodded at them for some time, wondering what exactly had happened there. Perhaps they'd been singed in the flames of the TARDIS and never fully grown in. An explanation wasn't going to give him more eyebrows, though. The smooth skin of his face was largely uninterrupted, though when he tried to produce his best stern look, not sure if he was doing it totally right, his reflection's forehead collapsed into furrows that gave him just a bit more age.

A bit more age…what was he even saying? To look at this face and call it old was laughable. For all that his clothes belonged on a grandfather, this face belonged on a University student. Sure his high cheekbones had become more defined as he'd thinned—whether from running, a smaller appetite, stress, or some combination he did not wish to examine—but he barely passed for older-looking than the Ponds these days.

The only thing that gave him away were the eyes, those dark swirling pools he felt he could get lost in, like some horror-filled labyrinth of despair to be navigated while wearing a heavy weight around his neck to drag him back down. He wondered if that was what all the others saw, too, and if so then why they would ever possibly consent to go with someone so obviously monstrous and insane.

Maybe it was the shine to them, that impossible spark that still glimmered telling of a hundred thousand wonders just waiting to be glimpsed, if only one braved the maze. Because there's always a way out of a maze, even if the exit's not where a person started in the first place.

The Doctor, however, gripped the frame of the inordinately elegant mirror to brace his weight and leaned forward, closer to his own eyes. The shape, color, size, and distance between varied from face to face, but those who met him twice always said that the eyes were the same. That wasn't true; he knew for a fact that should he walk down the street one day and encounter a seemingly elderly man with his granddaughter, and he met that older gentleman's gaze straight on, the man would turn away in terror and flee. As he should.

He supposed there had always been a knowledge in his eyes, a depth that spoke of something more. But as each face wore away the depth only got deeper and deeper. And this was as deep as it was going to get, apparently.

Because there was the rub. He was taking this time to inspect his features not out of vain whim, but because he shouldn't have them anymore. Poison hadn't been high on his list of ways to go, but if it came from a kiss from River Song, he'd take it. Amelia Pond's young voice telling him his regenerative functions had been disabled had thrown him for a bit of a loop, though. He couldn't possibly go like this, leaving his beloved Ponds—all three of them—stranded in Hitler's Berlin. But River had surprised him once again, taking to the Old Girl like a fish to water. He could trust her to get her parents home, then. And if he could somehow help her on the path to recovery, to leave the traumas of Melody Pond behind…he'd found it amazingly easy to speak the truth from the bottom of his hearts.

In fairness he hadn't been all that surprised to come to moments later, warm lips pressing insistently against his own and golden energy swirling around them both. He'd been lying when he'd said nothing could save him. Even if a Time Lord's regenerative abilities were forced to shut down, if another of his kind was so willing, they could revive them by siphoning some of their own energy into him, kick starting his healing process. One or both of them would have likely undergone the full rejuvenation as a result—though likely not River as she'd still been settling into her latest form—and the whole merry dance of new face, new tastes, new personality would have begun anew.

That's not what had happened. River had poured her energy into him…and poured and poured. He'd panicked because he'd thought she didn't know how to stop, but then realized his regeneration would have automatically cut it off. But nothing in him stirred to begin the change, and River had had to give every last drop just to bring him back from the brink of death.

Death. He should be grateful to even be breathing right now. Instead the Doctor only felt a quiet, stifling dread as the one thing he'd been fearing since he'd become _himself_ was now confirmed in all its chilling reality. Whatever happened next, he would not and could not regenerate.

It was as though he'd received an invisible punch to the gut as he exhaled so suddenly, his grip on the mirror's frame tightening to the point where his knuckles turned white in the limited light. His forehead dropped to rest against the cool, reflective surface.

Yes, he'd been lying for a long time about what number regeneration he was on. He was always lying about one thing or another, and this was no exception. But even the knowledge of that secret, weathered face that plagued his nightmares just as much as the Dream Lord hadn't been too much cause for worry, his personal worry.

"I didn't have to be last. I wasn't _supposed_ to be last," he spoke, never mind to who. His voice sounded loud to his own ears, yet the racks and racks of clothing kept it from echoing, only reinforcing the smothering solitude he was experiencing.

And had that been a whine, one of his childish quirks his companions said he expressed this go around? It sounded just a tiny bit cross, perhaps petulant. But it was true, as far as a strict progression of face-to-face, even with the unspoken one added to the lineup, he was not supposed to be the last.

His last body had been able to trick himself and the others, saying he hadn't regenerated. But that half-human Metacrisis, despite carrying his exact same face, had been an entirely separate entity. He counted. Which brought his total up to the ever unlucky thirteen.

It was like he'd caught the proverbial hot potato and turned only to find no one to throw it to. He was stuck with it, all of it. "Accountability," he tested the word out on his lips, and it tasted bitter. Turning his back to the mirror and instead leaning against it made it easier for him to draw breath, not having to openly confront the embodiment of all his lasts. Sliding down to the floor, he drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "Everything that happens, everything I've done—good or bad—falls to me. I am my legacy- the Doctor's legacy," he corrected softly, a wan smile stretching his lips.

"Is that why you held off the Corsair's message for so long?" He directed this solely at the TARDIS now, tilting his head to the side with the sudden thought. "Because this was your last chance if you wanted to talk?" It came out slightly more accusatory than he'd intended, and a low, sullen hum was all he received in reply. He winced and patted the floor with one hand, his young hands that had callouses and scars mostly of his own design; other bodies he'd had came with them included, no extra charge. "It's alright, dear. I'm glad you did. I'd say I've grown quite fond of you in my old age, so it simply wouldn't do if you'd chosen someone else."

The hum changed to something warmer, and indeed he felt that the whole room became just a little bit warmer and brighter. The lights were still off, though.

"You were right," he continued absently running his hand over the cold floor beside him, "alive is sad when it's over. And it's almost over, girl, for me at least." The data he'd pulled from the _Tesselecta_ flashed to the forefront of his mind. Why couldn't he have left well enough alone? He never did learn. "What will you do once I've gone to Lake Silencio, hm?"

The engines gave a low, mournful thrum that reverberated through him. "Now there's no need for that. You keep that up and you'll make me cry, I just know it," he chided, even as he scrubbed at his eyes with his other hand. "We both know there's no such thing as forever. Seriously, who were we kidding? A mad man in a Type 40 Time Capsule careening around the universe, bound to end in wrack and ruin for somebody. Probably me, bit more fragile, these bodies, eh? And young…God, I'm young," he choked out through a weak, startled laugh. How absurd it would sound to one of his human companions! But for a Time Lord, nine-hundred and eight was an appallingly early age to throw in the towel. True, he'd seen more and done more than fifty of that stuffy lot put together easily, but he'd never thought—

Lying on his back in red grass, basking in the warmth of two suns, he'd never put a number on where it would all end. And never so low. He'd been so blissfully unaware of where life would take him, what it would show him, and all the times he would destroy it. For everything he'd saved, there were still others he hadn't. For each day everybody lived, there were so many more where they didn't. He had enemies for a reason, and their increasing attempts to entangle him, stop him, desperate to keep the universe from him must say something about the Doctor. About him.

"I don't want it all to be _my_ fault," he said softly to his knees, needing to hear it but scared to let it carry, eyes squeezed shut.

"Doctor?" The lights flicked on suddenly and after hurriedly swiping a sleeve across he blinked up at Amy in the brightness, framed in the doorway and looking at him in confusion and just a bit of worry.

"Ah, Pond, something I can do for you?" He asked, thankful that his voice sounded normal now, at least to his ears. The red-haired woman walked forward, glancing about the wardrobe room and even once turning and walking backwards for a bit as if to check the corridor.

"The TARDIS was sounding a bit off," she informed him, and he hoped he didn't pale as much as he thought he did. "So I told Rory to keep an eye on the controls since he knows them better, and I followed the noises here."

"That's interesting," he noted, keeping his tone light enough, but feeling a bit foolish inside. He should have known Amy's constant curiosity would have drawn her here; he hadn't exactly asked the TARDIS to be discrete with their conversation. "Well the noises have stopped now, haven't they?"

"Yeah," she agreed with a nod. "Yeah, now that I've found you." And she plopped herself down gracefully at his side, folding her legs beneath her and leaning both against the mirror and just a bit on his shoulder. She looked up at him seriously from under long lashes and he tried not to look too nervous, wondering if and how much she had heard. "So that was regeneration."

"Sorry?" He blinked, not entirely sure what she meant and feeling his heart rates speed up.

"What Mels did, into River I mean," she clarified and inwardly the Doctor sighed in relief. Maybe Amy was suspicious of what he was doing here and the TARDIS' melancholy sounds that had been strange to her ears. But she wasn't going to talk about them. Poor Ponds had enough troubles without poking their noses into anything else. His fault, and truly only this him's fault at that.

"Yes, that was regeneration," he finally answered. "Quite a spectacle, isn't it?"

She smiled a little and nodded. "Yeah, but I was just wondering—what does that mean for Mels?"

"Hm?"

"I know we didn't talk about her to you," she seemed to be having trouble explaining, "but she was Rory and my best friend in Leadworth. And I just saw her explode into flames," the last part was added softly, in a slight rush as though she felt it was shameful to even speak of it. "So is she just...gone?"

"Oh, Amy," he sighed, letting himself relax for now. Answering her questions, her fears, reassuring her he could do. It was much better than the current trend of his thoughts. "The physical form you know as Mels is gone, yes. I'm afraid that's the last you've seen of your childhood friend." A sad frown tugged her lips downward, so he shifted a bit in order to take one of her hands and squeeze it briefly. "But, she's still there. Just because we may call her River Song doesn't mean she's forgotten what is was to be Mels."

"She doesn't want to put all that behind her? I thought maybe River'd want me to keep acting like I have been around her, before knowing everything, I mean." Amy was now worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, needlessly he privately thought.

"Yes, but now you do know everything. It's not as if she could've told you she was Mels, you had to find that out for yourself. Remember _she_ sought you and Rory out as Mels, _she_ saved you from the _Tesselecta_. I think she'll be quite glad to have her mum and dad back."

Amy now had a wide, warm smile on her face even as her eyes shone with a bit of barely restrained tears. He squeezed her hand again and she visibly made the effort to pull herself together. "That's- that's good. But, um—sorry, this is a lot of questions, isn't it?" They both chuckled a little, but he nudged her gently to indicate she should continue. "She remembers everything and feels basically the same about stuff, but she's still kind of different, yeah? Sort of more…River-y. How does that work?"

"Well you've sort of answered your own question in there, Pond," he told her. "Yes, she remembers everything from being Mels, just as Mels remembered everything she could about being that little girl in America." Amy glanced down at that so he put a finger under her chin and tilted her face back up. "It's mostly the superficial things that are different, like what foods she wants to eat or clothes she wants to wear. And maybe how she reacts to certain situations might differ. It's all so new, you see?"

"Yeah. You were going on all about that when you crashed in my backyard." He smiled faintly at the memory. Oh how he'd felt so alive back then. "Had you just regenerated? Where were you even coming from?" Her face had taken on a thoughtful expression and he could see the impending trip down memory lane just waiting to happen.

So he employed one of his many diversionary tactics: the general answer. "Space," he stated plainly, yet couldn't seem to keep from adding, "I was a bonafide Spaceman those days." He'd felt the same anguish and guilt as that Spaceman when a certain ginger's form had appeared before him only hours ago. And how was that fair, that they all got a clean break of it while he had to lug around the baggage and damage of twelve other men, never mind his own? If he really was the new man sauntering on his own way, why did he feel so old, and why did his feet drag when no one was looking?

Best not to dredge up those thoughts now, this was supposed to be about Amy and her problems. There'd be plenty of time for his, there always was. "But that's not really important anymore, Pond. Of course, those days are _important_, they always are. And they always will be, but now they're…removed. I can remember and see and feel them as though they've happened to me, but it's like they're all on the other side of a glass and they wouldn't know me. I've lived those memories, but I haven't _experienced_ them. They exist, in my mind and my hearts, apart from you and I. And that's good, you know? I can revisit them whenever I want, just as River can revisit some sunny day in Leadworth with you and Rory. And those memories are safe and separate, untainted by me and whatever I may do next."

He must have forgotten how to be reassuring, for if anything Amy just looked more sad. "Why would you taint them?" He couldn't seem to find an answer that was the truth and wouldn't hurt, and so chose not to say anything at all. Sometimes that was best. Amy leaned her head fully on his shoulder and looped her arm through his, her own silent offering of support. She and Rory and River were all living proof of all his failures, and yet time and again they came back to him. Selfishly, he did not turn them away. He was old and set in his ways in that regard, and he did not want to be alone.

"Do you ever miss being them? The other yous, I mean," she asked suddenly, the thought likely having just popped into her head. Even now she was so openly inquisitive; it warmed him as much as her presence by his side.

"Sometimes, I suppose. I wonder what they might have done differently, if they'd been me in a particular moment, and vice versa. It's so impossible to predict, though, because as a Time Lord we're always looking to the past and yet striving for some future. And they've all left their mark on me. I behave a certain way because he inspired me, or I don't do that anymore because I've realized how foolish it was when he did it, that sort of thing. We're different men and yet fundamentally the same, and I've got to try and- and represent that, Pond. It's my job as the—" he hesitated over the word 'last', instead substituting, "eldest, to keep in mind what it is to be the Doctor, and still manage to have a bit of my own fun along the way, eh?"

Amy's lips quirked in a slight smirk as she said, "Who has more fun than us?"

He laughed, feeling just that bit more glad to be sharing at the least the bare minimum of his worries. Pond always made it sound less scary. "Ah, there you've got it. Because it's not just about where I've been, Amy, it's about where I'm going. Where I'll end up next."

Her smile, as it had been lately whenever he talked about life, death, or the future was now strained, and it abruptly clicked into place. _She knew_. She knew about Lake Silencio. They all knew. The TARDIS blue envelopes, the mysterious person who'd gathered them all in Utah, and the reason she'd been so distraught and yet overjoyed to see him returning with his special straw. It was him, it _would_ be him, who set it all into motion. And for some reason that started with the three people dearest to him watching him die.

Oh, Amy. Why couldn't he ever just be alone?

"So, we were talking about Mels becoming River," he changed topics, not very subtly but he didn't think she minded. "Does that answer all your questions?"

"I think so," she agreed after a minute. "It's just weird, cause I guess I knew Melody had to become River somehow. I just never thought Mels was—it's a bit mad, isn't it?" She looked consideringly at him, then shook her head. "I can't ever picture you changing, though."

"I'm sure many would say the same, and they've been very surprised on that count. But," and a rueful smile came to his face at his private dark humor, "I don't think you'll have to concern yourself with me changing anytime soon."

"It's ok if you do," she blurted. "Change, I mean. Cause you'd still be my best friend. Rory and I wouldn't care, and River would definitely get it. If you have to change then I'd rather you do. You don't have to feel bad." Her voice was quiet, but her eyes wide and pleading. He thought for a moment that he perhaps should tell her that she didn't need to worry; they both knew now that he wouldn't ever change again, if for different reasons.

But he felt oddly touched by the sentiment she'd expressed. Few of his companions ever knew about regeneration before it was about to occur, and then usually it was a hasty explanation and then bam! New man springing to life before their eyes, faced with the task of winning them over, proving that the most important part of him was still the same; how he cared for them.

This statement of unconditional acceptance, however, was a comfort he hadn't had in a long time. It was almost too much a shame that it was moot, and that hurt all over again.

"Thank you, Pond," he said warmly all the same. "I do feel bad, however, for spiriting you and your husband away from that cornfield. Would you like me to take you back home? I'd imagine you want the space." No doubt they needed time to digest this new information yet again; that they'd had their daughter with them all along, but they'd never have Melody again. How could she sit here with him after he'd let her down so badly?

But Amy shook her head. "No, no we don't want to go back to Leadworth. We're staying with you for a bit, if that's alright. For as long as we can." She never ever promised him forever, though funnily enough she and Rory had the best chance of it out of all the people he'd traveled with so far, now that his life span was put on the levelest playing field he'd yet to know. They could stay with him till the end, his Ponds. And that might make this just a little bit ok.

"Of course," he replied to her, then turned and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He was grateful this body was so touchy-feely; he wanted to reach out, needed to hold onto something before the end. Because he was afraid. "Thank you, Amelia," he whispered into her hair, then pillowed his cheek against it.

It wouldn't be until morning that the Doctor would wake up and find a blanket thrown over all three of them—Rory now settled in on his other side with an arm flung across to grasp Amy's hand. _Family_, something he hadn't had since the very beginning of such a long story that suddenly felt too short and rushed.

He'd allow himself this one more time before the close.

**So yeah, bit angsty. I know, I'm terrible when it comes to that, right? But this was me just reflecting on some things. I think it really brings an interesting perspective to the 11****th**** (or rather 13****th****) Doctor's era when you realize that he's technically the final face of such a remarkable Time Lord, and the next set were lives he never expected to have. I know the writers didn't have that in mind until having to insert the War Doctor into the lineup, but in-show he always existed. So this was me trying to reason out why Smith's Doctor thought he'd regenerate mid-S6, if that makes sense. Thanks for reading, and please review!**


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